


Salt and Oakum

by ColebaltBlue



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Canon Divergence, Hand porn, Horny hands, M/M, Pining, tegmore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 15:19:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18346319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColebaltBlue/pseuds/ColebaltBlue
Summary: Lieutenant Bush did not have doctor's hands.  His hands were roughed from work, as horny as an ordinary seaman's.This story belongs in sanguinity'sTegmore'verse





	Salt and Oakum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sanguinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/gifts).



> All they way back in July, (July 18th, to be exact), sanguinity gave me a prompt, "Bush's Horny Hands". This was at the very beginning of our foray into Hornblower. She said, "Have I got my thumb on the scales, hoping for pwp? Perhaps I do....To be clear, I'd be also be happy with Hornblower obsessing about Bush's hands." I'm not sure when/how I started writing it, but somewhere around December or so this finally came together under the working title Horny Hands. 
> 
> But I never really cleaned it up or finished editing it. It just languished in drafts. Then, Sanguinty wrote a sequel. Then another sequel. And we talked at length about the little 'verse that we were building around the relationship I introduced in Horny Hands. Then, another sequel, which then I wrote a sequel to and posted it. We played around with stories and drafts and bits and pieces and all the while Horny Hands simply languished. All the while, the original just sat there. Occasionally I'd go poke at it here and there, but it remained largely ignored as Sanguinity alternately asked nicely, bribed, and whatevered me to finish it. 
> 
> I'm not sure why I finally decided this week to wrap it up. But I did, so here it is. It's got a title and it's all grown up now and for some reason I really look at this fic as a key point in my journey and growth as a fic writer in the last year or so.

Horatio's father wanted him to be a doctor. When he said he wanted to go to sea, his father encouraged him to at least be a ship's surgeon, or a scientist. "You have the hands for it, son," he said to him. "Delicate hands, steady hands, you would make an excellent doctor."

But Horatio did not want to be a doctor.

He stepped aboard his first ship as a midshipman when he was already a man, but his hands were soft as a boy's. He ran orders and climbed the rigging day and night until his skin smelled of nothing but salt and hemp and he felt as if he almost could become the creak and sway of the ship itself. But his hands remained soft and delicate. Doctor's hands.

Lieutenant Bush did not have doctor's hands. His hands were roughed from work, as horny as an ordinary seaman's. They caught on the paper as he marked their course on the charts. They fumbled at the needle and thread as he attempted to mend his torn clothes. They dried and cracked in the frigid winter air and sea spray.

Horatio noticed Bush's hands soon after he came aboard. He wondered at them. Bush wasn't one to offer anecdotes of his boyhood or unsolicited news of home in the wardroom so he had no way of knowing how Bush's hands came to be. But Horatio couldn't help but observe them as Bush took the noon readings, the horny rough fingers making quick if not delicate work of his sextant. He noticed them as they spread out across the charts and tapped the paper as their owner struggled so hard with the mathematical calculations.

In the dark of night, when he was weak, when he could not force his mind to productive thoughts, when he could not escape the darkest parts of his soul, he thought of how those hands would feel on his bare skin.

* * *

Bush hissed as he bumped his hand against his plate. He gripped his fork and knife carefully in each hand, clearly trying to prevent moving his fingers as much as possible. His hands were raw and red, cracked and bleeding. Horatio winced as he looked at them. 

The gun crews of the Renown were lazy and inattentive. Most of the time, the only consequences were firing exercises that took twice as long as they should. But occasionally, the lack of attention and focus meant something much more dangerous like it had today.

An error among Bush's gun crew had caused the gun to shift dangerous, and Bush leaped for the ropes - grasping at them as they slid through his hands. Anyone knew that checking the recoil of a 12 pounder was impossible for a man alone; to attempt to it was foolish and likely to only cause injuries and chaos. But less than a second later, Horatio saw what Bush had seen, as the entire gun crew snatched for the ropes and heaved against the weight of the tipping gun. It was stupid of Bush. It was stupid and foolhardy and brave. Bush's sure hands and strong shoulders strained against the weight of the gun, bearing the brunt as he was first on the ropes. Then the pressure was relieved as another gun crew came to their aid. They heaved again and again to right the gun, swearing and sweating as they wrestled the beast back into place. Bush had hauled away on the rope, not letting go until all was secured again. Horatio had watched in horror and admiration and he had peeled his hands away, leaving bits of skin and blood behind. Horatio was no stranger to rope burn, but the thick scores of raw flesh had been the worst he'd seen. 

Bush had simply turned and bellowed, "reload." So Horatio had taken the cue and done the same. There would be time enough for the punishment for the man who and endangered his crewmates and superior officer, but for now, there was an exercise to complete.

Only later, with his duty over for the day, down in the wardroom, did Bush allow the pain and discomfort to show, and only when he was out of sight of everyone but Hornblower, who could just glimpse him through their open cabin doors. Hornblower watched as Bush tended to his wounded hands in his small cramped cabin. Horatio was due up on the quarter deck for his watch. Bush doctored to his burns with grease and dirty linens -- the best that could be gotten from their drunk surgeon -- but Horatio knew from standing by his father's side as he tended the wounds of the local farmers and their wives that Bush risked infection from them. 

Horatio bit his lip and glanced at Roberts sitting at the table, nose buried deep in a book, clearly not paying any attention to either the third lieutenant carefully dressing in his small cabin or the fifth watching him through their open doors.

Horatio continued to watch as Bush struggled to button his waistcoat, fingers stiff and clumsy. He wasn't having much success and the white of his uniform became stained with red and splotchy with grease. It might go unremarked by the captain, or Bush might find himself punished harshly for it. 

Horatio was well acquainted with how to treat burns and remove blood from clothes. Keep it clean, Horatio, his father would say, clean and dry and let the body heal itself. Horatio had salve and clean linen in his kit, gifts from his father that he kept out of common sense rather than sentimentality. And removing blood from clothes was easy enough, his father had told tell him, as he pressed his cuffs and shirts into a basin of cold water when the the blood was fresh or a bowl of vinegar when the blood was dry. 

Horatio didn't want to approach Bush for fear of embarrassing him in front of Roberts. Bush might not bellow at his fellow lieutenants, but he had a strong temper, a penchant for curses, and no compunction at rebuking. Horatio cringed as he saw Bush's strong capable hands struggle with the ties at his cravat, leaving a vivid red streak against the white and he heard a curse as Bush spotted it too. 

Roberts read on. 

Horatio stepped around the table that dominated the center of the room. He kept one eye on Roberts, and approached Bush's door carefully. He leaned against the frame, as casually as possible. 

"Sir," he said lowly. "I am already soaking my spare shirt. I could add yours. I'm happy to wash it too."

He stared at his feet, not at Bush's hands.

Bush was silent.

Finally, he spoke. "It's not your job to do my laundry, Lieutenant Hornblower."

"No sir, I just thought, well, I'm already doing mine and-"

"I can look after my own things." Bush said curtly and turned away from Horatio, dismissing him.

Horatio retreated. As he shut the linen covered wood frame door he noticed Roberts' curious gaze on him. 

The next night Horatio relieved Bush on his watch and he couldn't help looking again at Bush's hands. They were still wrapped in the dirty linen and now oozed as well as bled. Horatio's own hands ached in sympathy. Bush caught him looking and Horatio felt his cheeks heat. Bush's voice was clipped and short as he read his report to Horatio before he officially handed off watch and went below. Horatio cringed in shame to know what Bush would discover when he stepped into his cabin, a tin of burn salve set carefully atop clean fresh linen dressings. Bush would know immediately who they were from and Horatio cursed the feeling that had made him retrieve the items from his sea chest and place them on Bush's cot. 

Horatio had first watch and when eight bells had been rung and Smith appeared to replace him, he went below to his cabin, eager to catch a bit of sleep before breakfast and sure he would be able to avoid encountering anyone. But he was not so lucky. The wardroom was quiet save a single lantern and two figures bent together at the far end of the table. Horatio stumbled on the last step and both men looked up, Roberts and Bush, and Horatio felt as if he were an unwanted interloper to a private moment between two lovers. He panicked for a moment that he was, but no, neither Bush nor Roberts would dare be so indiscreet even if-- 

He shook the thought from his brain. 

As he stepped fully into the wardroom, he could see them more clearly: Roberts was bent over Bush's hands which were resting open on the table. The wounds were raw and glistening from the salve that Roberts was carefully spreading over them. Horatio felt a stab of jealousy, but squashed it before it could become anything more. Bush glanced up, his expression inscrutable. Horatio stepped into his room before the moment grew long enough that someone would have to say something, even if it were just in greeting. But he stopped short in surprise - there was a shirt and neckcloth on his bed. All of his spares were tucked away in his chest and he didn't have any out on loan. He picked it up and noticed the blood on it. 

It wasn't his shirt. Horatio smiled and pressed it into the cold water in the wash basin. The soak would remove most of the blood. He might be able to scrub the rest. There was a small tear in the sleeve as well. He would mend it before returning it.

* * *

Horatio never knew where to put his hands when he was fucking a whore. If she didn't take them and put them on her breasts, or grip them in her own, or any other thing she felt like doing with them, he'd just settle them awkwardly on her hips if she was astride him or beside her head if she was underneath him. More than one had commented on their softness.

Bush, on the other hand, seemed to have no such similar concern. He had stripped his own whore naked and used his hand to what sounded like great appreciation by the redhead who was currently crying out with pleasure as he did something with his fingers near where her body joined his. Horatio had watched as Bush had stroked her breasts, pulled her hair, tweaked her nipples, as he placed them on her to move her about, encourage her faster, slow her down, stroke over her skin. He watched the rough sun-browned hands against the whore's milky white soft belly and as they slipped down into the curls below.

His own dark haired girl slowed her bouncing and was watching him watch Bush and his girl. Horatio flushed in shame, but she just cooed and shook her head.

"Annie, love!" she called out. Bush's girl cried out and shook as she rocked harder. 

"Annie!" Horatio's girl said, sharply. Annie slowed and glared at her over her shoulder. 

"Annie, bring him over here to show this one how it's done," she said with a saucy smirk. 

Horatio started in shock. Annie climbed off Bush and Horatio tore his eyes away, trying not to look at Bush's cock, slick with Annie and dark with blood. Bush grinned as he rose and followed Annie over to Horatio's bed. Horatio attempt to protest, but it was far, far too late.

Annie climbed in and lay next to Horatio, but further up on the pillow. If he turned his head, he'd have a face full of her breasts. His own girl laughed and climbed off of him. He attempted to roll to hide his own nakedness, as if he hadn't just been fucking a girl in the same room as Bush for the last thirty minutes already. Instead, he rolled neatly into Annie and felt his own legs brush Bush's. 

Bush was crawling up the bed, a grin on his face as he looked at Annie like he was about ready to devour her. Bush's hands trailed up Annie's thighs, pushing them apart. She grinned like she was the cat that got the cream. Horatio forgot his own girl as he watched, dumbstruck, as Bush buried his face in Annie's cunt and moved his hands to her hips, holding them as she bucked up into his mouth. Bush's eyes cut to his and he grinned, utterly filthy, as his tongue reached out and lapped into the slit hidden by Annie's curls. Annie cried out and arched her back.

Horatio couldn't look away. The other girl crawled up to drape herself over his side as he watched. She pulled at his cock, her leg heavy over his, her voice in his ear.

"Oh, he likes it, doesn't he. Look at that. He treats Annie right, not many who care about their girls like this. Annie's pleasure isn't in the shillings tonight, oh no, listen to her, this is the easiest money she's earned in ages." Horatio shuddered and not just from her hand on his cock. "Not many girls get their cunnys licked like this and look at what it does to her. You do this and she'll scream for you. Your friend does it so well, watch him." Horatio watched. "Touch her breasts, Annie loves having her nipples tweaked," the girl said in his ear. He reached forward with his hand and cupped her breast as he had seen Bush do earlier. He rubbed his thumb across her nipple and she gasped. He did it again, just to hear her. His own girl murmured encouragement in his ear. Bush slowed what he was doing and watched. Horatio switched to Annie's other breast.

"Do you want him to show you how to touch Annie right?" she asked. He nodded and splayed his hand flat on Annie's belly.

"Look at your fingers," she said. "You'll be marvelous at it. His tongue and your fingers." Horatio curled his fingers over the jagged silver lines that marked Annie's belly. Bush sat back on his knees. His cock was still jutting up, not as hard, but still full and proud. He was enjoying himself, he was enjoying what he was doing with Annie. He was quite possibly enjoying what was happening to Horatio as well. 

Bush took Horatio's hand in his own horny and rough ones. His grip was surprisingly delicate and Horatio was shocked to realize that this was the first time that he had touched Bush, hand to hand. Bush took his hand and moved it down into Annie's wet curls. Then he took Horatio's fingers and slid his fingers in between and drew them into the slick wetness of Annie's cunt. To Horatio's surprise, he did not draw them further down to thrust into Annie, but rather, he moved them around gently until Horatio felt them brush up against a hard nub of flesh. His eyes flew up to meet Bush's and Bush grinned at him.

"You feel that there?" 

Horatio nodded, unable to speak.

"That there is the key to it all. It'll unlock any woman. Just make sure she's good and wet, use your tongue if you have to, and then stroke it until she can't remember her own name."

Horatio nodded again. Bush's fingers moved with his. They were gentle over the flesh as Bush guided him to rub above the nub in little circles, then beside it, then brushing softly over it. Annie shook and gasped.

"Hear that?" Bush asked. All Horatio could do was nod. "She likes it. She's gonna come for you, just keep it up. Gentle. It feels like you do when it's almost too sensitive to touch."

Bush's fingers slipped from his, slick with Annie's wet, and slid down further. They slid inside her. He seemed to be waiting for something as he worked his hand. Bush's other hand slid up Annie's stomach to her breast and kneaded at it. Horatio watched. His own girl worked his cock steadily, but he was too focused on Bush's hands working Annie over, on Horatio's own joining in, to pay attention to his own building pleasure. 

"C'mon love," Bush muttered. Horatio bit his lip and stroked Annie, rubbing the spot just beside the nub that seemed to make her buck and cry out the most. She started to shake and Bush's face broke into a grin. 

She shook and shook and shook, riding a wave of pleasure that seemed to go on forever. Hornblower slowed and watched her as Bush's fingers continued to work in and out of her, his other hand stroking her belly as she cried and tossed her head.

The other girl's hand on his cock and he was shocked to discover how close he was to the edge. Suddenly, it was upon him and he arched back into the arms of the girl, perched on the edge of the precipice, needing something more to push him over.

Then, in a crash of feeling that overwhelmed him - it was there as Bush's calloused fingers pushed between his lips, musky with the taste of Annie. Horatio swirled his tongue around them, lapping at the fingertips and then sucking down to the knuckle. Bush grunted low in his throat, his other hand beating furiously on his own cock. Horatio shivered and moaned around Bush's fingers as he watched him spill across Annie's stomach, painting her breasts, belly, and the hair of her cunt with his spend. Then his own cock pulsed and the girl behind him whispered encouragement in his ear as he added his own spend to Bush's on Annie.

Bush's finger slipped from his mouth as Horatio lay back, chest heaving and legs weak from what just happened. His mind was curiously blank and calm.

Everything slowed like molasses and he lay there, drifting as Bush rose, paid both girls and shut the door behind them. He poured water in the basin and brought over a rag he used to clean up both of their bodies. Horatio let his body be moved about by Bush's hands and he watched with a sort of detached curiosity as Bush's hands gripped his arm, stroked over his thighs, and patted his belly before encouraging him to roll over. 

Horatio curled up and away from the wet spot, still shaky and blank. He felt Bush adjust the blankets and then climb into the bed beside him. Bush lay on his back, his body pressing firmly against Horatio's, and laid a careful arm on his shoulder. When Horatio made no move, Bush slowly began stroking him with his rough but surprisingly gentle fingers. Horatio shivered, but Bush didn't stop.

The sun had moved across the room by the time Horatio had the energy to move again, Bush snoring softly in his ear, arm over Horatio and hand curled into his chest. He was loath to disturb him, but he had to piss and he was hungry. Horatio reached for Bush's hand and stroked his fingers gently before he removed it and rolled over. Bush shifted as well and Horatio carefully placed Bush's hand on his chest.

He rose and pulled on trousers and a shirt from the floor. The mended cuff told him it was Bush's. He'd ring for supper and perhaps another girl or two. They still had plenty of money left and although his body was still shaky and spent, Horatio wanted to know how much more Bush could show him about how to touch women with his hands.

* * *

It was incongruous to see dirt under Bush's fingernails and staining his cuticles. It was even ground into the lines and calluses of his hands. For a brief moment, Hornblower had confused it for tar or pitch or gunpowder. But after six months beached in Portsmouth, he knew better than anyone it could only be soil that covered the naval officer's hands.

Bush caught him looking and seemed chagrined.

"I weed the garden," he said by way of explanation, examining his fingernails and picking at them a bit. He said it in such a way that it implied that was all he did.

"In the winter?" Hornblower asked, surprised. His only experience had been of the kitchen garden the cook and maid had kept off the back steps when his mother had been alive, but even he knew gardens didn't grow in the winter.

Bush shrugged. "There's the winter vegetables. But mostly it's the only way to get out of doors."

He said it in such a way that it implied that Horatio should understand what he was talking about, but Horatio had grown up without any sisters, let alone with four. He wasn't sure what women did indoors all day that would drive a man outside in the winter cold. After his mother died when he was a boy, Horatio's contact with women was limited to greeting Mrs. Smith from the village three days a week when she arrived to cook and clean for him and his father. His experiences with his landlady, Mrs. Mason, and her daughter Maria, added only drinking and school teaching -- hardly enough to understand Bush's meaning. 

Bush was smiling at him, so he smiled back and nodded as if he perfectly understood. 

Prepared for this visit to last a few days longer than the last, Bush's sisters had packed him food enough and then some for his time in Portsmouth and he and Bush sat on Horatio's bed to share in the bounty from the garden Bush had been tending. 

As Horatio examined the vegetables and dried apples, potatoes, and brown country bread, he wondered if it had all been touched by Bush's hands as it hung heavy in the trees or grew in efficiently weeded beds. Horatio wondered what weeding was like, and if Bush was as meticulous about it as he was with the timing of his gun crews at exercises. The thought of the man kneeling in the dirt seemed incorrugrous against Horatio's image of Bush sitting at the wardroom table, hands folded on his stomach as he leaned back in his chair and listened with a ghost of a smile to Roberts tell the same story for the third time. In Horatio's memories, Bush's hands would sometimes be blackened with tar or gunpowder, the way they were now with dirt. Horatio thought of the way that Bush took care with his guns, examined them after the drills, knew their quirks and personalities; he could see Bush taking the same care over winter vegetables. Horatio wondered what winter vegetables were and if he was eating one now.

They didn't have long before Horatio was due in the Long Rooms. Tonight Bush had said he would join Horatio, happy to take advantage of the Marquis's hospitality. Horatio couldn't blame him: the attic room would be a cold dark place to wait and the Long Rooms promised conversation and a roaring fire. 

As they walked the cold streets, Bush tucked his hands into his great coat and the sleeves hung at his sides, arm shaped, but ending disconcertedly in emptiness, as if Bush had lost his hands at some point and not acquired anything in their place. 

It was far colder as they walked back to Horatio's lodgings. Horatio's fingers stung in the bitter winter air and he knew they would ache when he attempted to warm them by the meager fire in the attic room. He burned with shame that he did not have his great coat and found himself angry with Bush that he had managed to keep his. Bush probably even wore it weeding, a naval greatcoat meant to keep the icy sea a bay, meant for the kind of foul weather that made you cling to the ropes to keep your feet.

When they arrived in his rooms Horatio hissed as he attempted to stretch his fingers in front of the fire. He was surprised as Bush took his hands in his own warmer but rough and calloused ones. Horatio felt a rush of heat, warmer than the fire, rush through his body. It was hotter even than that warm night in Kingston in the whore house. As Bush's fingers chafed his with gentle efficiency, Horatio couldn't help but think back to that moment, almost a year ago, when Bush's calloused finger had slid between his lips and he had felt it with his tongue. The heat burned low in his belly. 

Bush raised his eyes and looked at Horatio and smiled at what he saw there. Horatio's cheeks burned, from embarrassment, from the cold of the walk, from something else. He let Bush chafe his fingers warm and he enjoyed it. There was a moment when he could've stepped back with a laugh, clapped Bush on the shoulder, and turned away, but he didn't. He stayed as the chafing turned to caressing. He stayed longer as Bush's eyes turned first questioning, and then burned with something so much more. The smile slipped from his face, to be replaced with something far more dangerous, something Horatio had no name for. 

They stripped naked as if a flogging awaited the slowest man, although neither man had ever experienced a flogging before. Bush finished not even a moment behind Horatio, despite the fact that he had to remove his greatcoat as well as all his clothes. They stood there, naked, in the low light of the fire in the dark and cold attic. It was much too cold to be standing naked and they hurried under the blankets on Horatio's bed, arranging themselves with efficiency on the narrow cot as only men who are accustomed to sleeping twelve inches wide can.

They had no excuse of whores this time, but that didn't seem to matter one bit. Their hands found each others cocks and Horatio gasped to feel those calloused fingers wrap knowingly around his own length and stroke. Bush grunted as Horatio's own hand squeezed too hard in reaction; Horatio loosened it and stroked Bush's length gently in apology. 

The angle was awkward. Their knees bumped, their hands got in each other's way, and despite the cold of the attic, it was far too hot under the covers, but they didn't dare lift them. Horatio wanted to kiss Bush. He wanted to feel his mouth against his own, wanted his tongue to tangle and slide against Bush's, wanted to taste him, but he couldn't seek that intimacy. He settled for pressing his mouth against Bush's neck and shoulder, kissing all the skin he could reach. He nipped and bit, kissed and licked, and when he couldn't do anything more than gasp and pant open mouthed against Bush's collar bone, he did that as well.

Bush's hand had found the back of Horatio's head and his fingers gripped his hair tight, rubbing and massaging and gripping. He pressed Horatio's face to his shoulder and then yanked it back so he could growl into Horatio's throat. It was an embarrassingly short time before Horatio felt the completion come upon him. He caught his shout in the back of his throat and whimpered his pleasure. Bush followed a few strokes later, grunting rhythmically as his hand gripped Horatio's hair so tight it was very nearly painful. He then sighed, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

They almost kissed then, but not quite, as Bush nuzzled Horatio's face, his lips brushing his jaw and cheek. Horatio closed his eyes against the overwhelming feeling of it all and breathed in the heady scent of Bush's sweat and their spend and the soap Mrs. Mason used. 

Bush rose almost immediately and Horatio's heart lurched in fear. Bush yanked the covers from Horatio and he lay there, exposed, cock wilting and limp, but Bush returned just a moment later, bearing the sheets and blankets from his own cot. He settled the cool fresh cloth over Horatio and he was pleased to feel it brush against his overheated and sensitive skin.

Bush climbed in again and settled against Horatio, pulling him half onto his body. It was intimate -- perhaps a bit too intimate for two men who had the luxury of a second bed in a private room -- but Horatio had shared smaller quarters before, albeit a bit more clothed. He settled in, warmed by Bush's strong body at the same time he was cooled by the fresh sheets and still chilly air of their room. An overwhelming sense of comfort was the last thing he was aware of before he fell into the most contented sleep he had had since disembarking from the Retribution.

* * *

Horatio hadn't intended to leave the entirety of planning his wedding in Bush's capable hands, yet somehow it happened. What he had intended was that Maria and her mother would plan all the details, and he would only be consulted when absolutely necessary. As far as he understood his role, it was to arrive at the Church in his finest uniform and speak a vow he was unworthy to make. But there was apparently much more to it than that, he realized as Mrs. Mason asked him for the third time what he preferred to have at the wedding breakfast. Her questions made him as seasick as he had been the very first day he had climbed aboard the Justinian. 

But it was Bush who stepped up beside him and answered Mrs. Mason. It was Bush who had taken over the role so smoothly that Horatio had not even noticed it happening. It was Bush who had somehow managed to not only outfit and prepare the Hotspur meticulously, but also outfit and prepare Horatio for the wedding as well. Bush was better than a wife, Horatio thought to himself as they stood together in the tiny church office. 

There was barely room for the two of them, the office even more cramped than in the small attic room at Mrs. Mason's. It felt a lifetime ago, but had been less than a month since they had first shared it. Bush was fussing over Horatio's clothing as a steward might, but Horatio was too nervous to be annoyed by it. The coat was second-hand from some poor officer much like himself who had been forced to sell off bits of uniform. But it was new to Horatio all the same, and it very nearly fit. The gold braid of the trim and the epaulette made Horatio more uncomfortable than the not quite right fit. Bush was doing his best to tug and tweak the jacket into place. 

Horatio was surprised at the way Bush's large and calloused hands handled the rather delicate work of helping him dress. 

Bush's hands rose to the collar and a single finger slid between the rough skin of Horatio's neck and his cravat, pulling at the folds so that they lay smoother. Horatio swallowed. He'd done a poor job shaving, hands shaking from pre-wedding nerves, or maybe just the way Bush had stared at him as he bent shirtless over the wash basin and taken the straight razor to his neck. 

Horatio's own hands came up and caught Bush's. His own soft delicate fingers wrapped around Bush's strong horny ones and he pressed his face into Bush's hands, breathing in the hemp and oakum of the of their Hotspur. 

"Sir," came the steady voice. A thumb stroked his hand. A finger brushed his cheek. Horatio steadied himself and allowed himself one last moment of weakness as he brushed his lips over the rough knuckles of Bush's hands before he stepped away, dropping them and fisting his own at his side.

"Carry on, Mr. Bush."

"Aye, sir."

* * *

Blockade duty was quite possibly the most boring assignment in the Navy. Horatio drilled the crew to keep them sharp. He bothered Bush to annoy him and ignored him to annoy him further. He wondered, if he had been a doctor like his father had wished, would he be this troubled, this unsettled. He had delicate hands, doctor's hands, he thought as he looked at them, spread over the charts. Soft enough they never chapped and cracked in the cold winter air the way Bush's did.

Bush was a seaman through and through. Brass-lunged, steady, precise, not prone to sea sickness. He lacked strategic finesse and he struggled with his maths, but he was a perfect counterpoint to Horatio in all ways, right down to his hands, as horny and chapped as Horatio's were delicate and soft.

At night, in his cot, when Horatio's need was too great to be ignored, he'd warm his hands against his lantern and shove them into his drawers, pulling quick and rough at himself. He'd imagine that the warm soft hands were Maria's. Maria's were hardened by the work in her mother's house, but still women's hands that touched softly when they needed to. His hands could be Maria's if he closed his eyes and imagined it.

But there were some nights when that wasn't enough. He would stroke at himself with his fingers, pulling and twisting, and it simply would not work for him. On those nights he'd grow rougher, chafing himself, squeezing and jerking. He would imagine different hands. He knew how those hands felt and some nights he would close his eyes and they would be rough honry hands pulling at him. Worse yet, he'd remember the way Bush's breath felt panting against his bare shoulder, he'd remember the smell of him, the feel of his hot naked body beside his own. 

On those nights he'd come shuddering and silent, gasping for air in the cold dark, body wracked with orgasm and the scent ship and sea surrounding him. On those nights he'd choke back tears of loneliness and wish for a body next to his, any body, even Maria's. On those nights he'd curl his hands against his chest as he folded in on himself to sleep, tangle his fingers together and hate himself for wishing they were Bush's.


End file.
